


Three Strikes

by thewritingrider



Series: There and Back Again [3]
Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Constantin makes my heart hurt, De Sardet falls apart, Explicit Language, F/M, I still want to smack Kurt a little bit, Spoilers, who wouldn't honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22248370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritingrider/pseuds/thewritingrider
Summary: The Admiral. The Governor. The Coin Guard.
Relationships: De Sardet/Vasco (GreedFall)
Series: There and Back Again [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600456
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	Three Strikes

**Author's Note:**

> I was so completely blindsided by this point in the game that I'm a little embarrassed by it. I saw Constantin's thing coming, but not the other two; I figured De Sardet's dad had cheated on her mom or something. Not... that. And Kurt. Thank GOD I'm a completion-ist and I did his stuff on time. 
> 
> Major Spoilers. Don't read if you haven't done the thing yet. You know what I'm talking about.

It begins with the Admiral. 

Cabral had tried to be gentle, he would give her that much credit. But never, in all the many months that he had known her, all the wounds and fights and diplomatic arguments, the exhaustion and the pain, had Captain Vasco seen Sylvania De Sardet’s perfect face blanch pure and utter white. 

“I…” her breath sounds choked, and he shoots a panicked look at Siora over the top of her head. The _doneigad’s_ own face is blank with shock. “That… it cannot be.”

“I’m very sorry, your Excellency,” Admiral Cabral tries to say. “But it is. You are Seaborn. Your mother died shortly after your birth, on the journey.”

“No!” She sways on her feet, blue eyes wide and unseeing. “No, no, I cannot believe it.” Vasco places a steadying hand on her shoulder, well and truly worried she may faint dead away. His own mind is screeching for him to _do something_ , but his own bewilderment steals his very reason. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. “All this time, all the _stories_ … it was a lie?” Her face turns to his, her bottom lip quivering, and something in his chest clenches, vice-like. “My entire life, a fabrication?” Her hand clutches at his wrist, nails digging into his skin. He does not flinch away. 

“She might be mistaken,” he tries to tell her quietly, wanting to hold her eyes, but they are one thousand miles away, distant and brittle. Never has he seen her so shaken. “We could check the records ourselves…”

“I’m not, Captain Vasco,” Cabral snaps, folding her arms, and he shoots her a venomous glare when De Sardet flinches. 

Abruptly, she snaps back together, yanking out from under his touch so hard she nearly stumbles. Vasco wants nothing more than to lead her off somewhere quiet, to pet her hair and let her rage like he knows she needs to, but she has suddenly thrown herself down a path he knows he cannot follow. “Did Constantin know?”

Cabral fidgets, looking at her hands. “I --”

“ _Did he know_?” Her voice is shrill, unrecognizable. Siora stares at him helplessly, fear blatant on her pretty face. 

“Your uncle did. I cannot say --”

“He’s not my uncle! Not according to you!” De Sardet wrenches the hat from her head and yanks both hands through her hair, tearing her messy, long braid to shreds. The grey ribbon that holds it together flutters to the stones underfoot, but she does not notice. “I have to… I need to know. He… I…”

“Sylvania,” Vasco hisses, and without looking at the Admiral, he takes her by the shoulders and begins to steer her down the crowded streets of New Sérène, Siora trailing silently behind them. He tugs her gently down a narrow alleyway, not far from the Copper District, that smells of smoke and melting iron. “Breathe. You’re panicking.”

She does not reply, and that is more worrisome than anything else; she loves nothing more than to talk. She merely shakes under his palms, silent and foreign. Vasco turns her gently so she is facing him, and with a jerk of his chin and meaningful stare at Siora, he tells her to guard the entrance of their temporary sanctuary. When she is gone, and they are surrounded by nothing more than the noises of a busy afternoon market - the calls of merchants and cheery laughter, the clanking of the blacksmith and the jingle of gold coins - he takes her face in his hands and forces her to look at him. “Listen to me. Take a deep breath. Like mine, alright?” 

She blinks, and the mistiness in her blue eyes spills over, the first of many tears trailing down her face. He brushes them away with his thumbs, bracing his forehead against her own as he takes deep, slow breaths for her to follow. “Easy, now.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs after several long moments, and her voice has lost its horrible tremble. Her long fingers curl in the collar of his coat, white-knuckled and strained. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have --”

“Stop.” He brushes the hair from her face, sweeping it behind her shoulders as he reties her favorite ribbon at the nape of her neck. “I would have done worse.”

The way she sniffles breaks his heart. She looks and sounds like a lost child, so far from the poised and confident woman he knows she is that he almost cannot recognize her. When she leans forward to bury her face in the leather of his coat, he strokes a steady hand down her spine and wonders what she did to deserve this.

* * *

It gets worse with Constantin. 

De Sardet had made a quick detour to her home before making her way to the Governor's Palace, and Siora has the grace to help her clean her face and put her hair back in place. Vasco keeps watch outside the door, warning any curious admirers or well-wishers away with a dark snarl. He wants to do more, hates that the force of her heartbreak is too much for his hands alone, and at the same time is so infinitely grateful for Siora’s quiet companionship that it nearly takes his breath away. 

She emerges soon after entering, prim and proper once more, and squeezes his hand when he lifts a questioning eyebrow. 

Sylvania tells them to wait outside the courtroom, and he understands. It is a private matter to begin with, and he knows the last thing she wants is for even more strangers to witness such a spectacular loss of composure. So he stands outside yet another door, hating how useless he feels, and waits. 

Not two minutes after she disappears into her cousin’s sanctuary, a horrendous sound erupts from behind the closed door, high and wailing and _anguished_. It is the sort of cry a wounded animal makes, and Vasco feels his stomach plummet to the soles of his feet, blood freezing in his veins. 

All the guards in the room suddenly are bursting from the door, pale and frightened, and he shoves through the small crowd, tripping over several pairs of boots as he fights toward the howling that he knows, with a cold sort of certainty, is coming from De Sardet’s throat. 

When he finally stumbles into the room, breathless, he sees Syvlania clutching at Constantin’s arms, a vial of black blood loosely dangling from his white fingers. 

“ _Constantin_!” she sobs, and for the second time in a single day, he watches her eyes well and tears streak down her face. He is rooted to the spot, frozen and helpless _again_. “Do you hear me, Constantin?”

“I’m going to die.” He has never heard the Prince’s voice so quiet.

“No! I won’t let that happen. I won’t, I _swear_.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and Vasco finally forces himself to turn around. He shouldn’t witness this, shouldn’t be privy to such heartbreak; not like this. He bites his own tongue to keep from cursing. “I’ll find a cure. I promise.”

“Don’t say that,” her not-cousin gasps, and then he is clutching her to his chest, nose buried in her dark hair. “Don’t give me hope.”

“You cannot die! We will find a way. I…” she swallows, loudly, gasping as she tries to force the tears back. “I need you here, with _me_.”

“And I shall endeavor to grant all your wishes, my fair cousin,” the man tells her, and Vasco grits his teeth. He spies Siora near the far wall, her eyes wide and shimmering. “If anyone has any chance, it is you.”

“...I’m not your cousin.”

Vasco closes his eyes. 

“My mother was a native. I was born upon a Naut ship, twenty five years ago, when a Congregation exploration team sailed here for the express purpose of raiding the villages and kidnapping the islanders. We’ve been here for _centuries_ , Constantin. Those ruins? Ours. The first attempt to settle failed, and we’ve been sailing here ever since.”

There is a beat of silence, and then the Governor makes a sound Vasco has never heard from his mouth: he growls. “All the _lies_ , all the stories my father spun for us.”

Vasco hears De Sardet hiccup, and he flinches, bowing his head. “I am… so sorry, Constantin. He used us both.”

“It matters not. You will always be my dear and fairest cousin,” Constatin tells her, so quietly Vasco almost cannot hear. “No one needs to know. My Aunt did officially adopt you, after all.” When Vasco looks over his shoulder at them, following Siora’s watery stare, he sees the two, arms locked as they stare intensely into the other’s face. “You are my truest and only friend. I do not care where you come from, little Sylvie.”

* * *

It ends with Kurt.

There is a racket in the hall. Vasco jerks away from where he had been leaning next to the entrance, nearly jumping out of his skin at the sudden noise, and then the Coin Guard Captain explodes through the giant oak doors of the courtroom with such force they collide loudly with the wall. 

Kurt is never particularly cheery, more often scowling than not, but the lowered brow and black snarl twisting across his face is the absolute last thing Vasco wants to see. He has half a mind to throw himself in the man’s path before he can ruin De Sardet’s day any further, but before the thought has even half formed in his mind he has thundered past, his heavy boots the only sound echoing about the cavernous, empty courtroom.

“Kurt!” De Sardet says, snapping to attention, and Vasco cannot look away. It is like watching a hurricane approach, knowing you are witnessing utter destruction, but unable to turn aside; so you watch, enraptured, as your doom approaches. She swipes at her face, forcing her voice to smoothness, and Constantin straightens his spine, tired eyes confused. “Is something happening?”

“You could say that,” the warrior says, low and even, and Vasco slowly draws his gun. He cannot breathe. 

De Sardet flicks at glance at him over her bodyguard’s shoulder. “Kurt?” She says again, the end turning up into a question. She does not reach for her weapon, but then again, she does not need one. “What’s wrong?”

The man steps forward, climbing the few steps to Constantin’s throne, and snarls, “Today’s a new day for the Guard, it seems.”

Siora is suddenly at his side, her breaths coming in quick pants, and she asks with the panic in her eyes what they are supposed to do. They know what they are seeing, know what is about to happen, and yet they cannot force themselves to leap into action. It is _Kurt._ Her friend, her protector, her mentor. _Surely not_.

“I don’t follow,” De Sardet is saying, and her face is oh-so-carefully blank. She takes a subtle step in front of her cousin, shielding him ever so slightly. 

He gets in her space. Barely a hair’s breadth from her, and Vasco twitches forward. Her eyes flit to him again, a flash of warning in them, and he freezes mid step. She does not stop him when he raises his gun to point between Kurt’s shoulders. He cannot _breathe_. Siora whimpers quietly beside him, magic pulsing. “You’re not welcome on the throne anymore, your Excellencies.”

“Excuse me?” Somehow, Constantin still manages to sound petulant. “What is the meaning of this, Kurt? How do you expect --”

“Standing behind every one of you is one of our men,” the Captain snaps, inching forward. “You are completely at our mercy.”

Sylvania’s face is white, with either shock or fury, Vasco cannot tell. She cannot hide the way she flinches away from him, cannot disguise the potent burst of hurt that sweeps across her face. It lasts for no more than a single second, and then she is moving. 

Snarling, she leaps forward, slapping her hands firmly on her friend’s shoulders and shoving. She catches him off guard, but not enough to completely unbalance him; he only stumbles down two steps before he rights himself. It is all the time she needs to plant herself firmly in front of her pale cousin, edging him backward, and with a trembling hand, she raises two fingers to point between the eyes of her Master of Arms. The hiss of magic fills the frozen room. “If you want him,” she says, her voice clear and ringing even as her hands shake, “You’ll have to kill me first.”

_Like hell he will_. Vasco pulls the hammer of his gun, the click lost on everyone but him and Siora. 

“Green Blood,” Kurt says, and his voice has lost it’s knife-like edge, because Kurt does not _soften_. “We have little time.”

It takes a moment for her jaw to unclench, for her to lower her glowing hand, and yet Vasco remains stock still, arm aching and burning with the effort of keeping Kurt within his sights. A slow, coiling _rage_ wraps itself around his middle, and he grinds his teeth so hard he can taste the fine dust on his tongue. He _knew_. This whole time, he knew, and he said nothing. “Why tell us this?”

“I’ve known you both for a long time. Too long.” Kurt crosses his arms, but makes no move for the giant claymore slung across his back. Vasco’s trigger finger twitches dangerously, his vision clouding over in red. “I’ve come to know you. Even respect you. And I’ve never renigged on a contract.”

“A _contract_?” De Sardet spits, poison dripping from her tongue. “Is that all we are to you? Ten _fucking_ years, Kurt, and all you have to say for yourself is ‘a contract?’” She gets in his face, pushing him again, and Vasco can tell Kurt is letting her; he steps back too easy, his bulk caving far more than it should under her slim hands. “What, five years less, a few coin purses short, and you would have slit my throat, would you?” She likely doesn’t know that she is crying, too angry to care as she hisses, “I _trusted you_! We both did!”

“Sylvie!”

“Shut up, Constantin!”

“And it is trust well placed, your Excellency. You have been forewarned. As we speak, the others will be making their way to San Matheus and Hikmet. There is no time to spare.”

The way her face slams shut, the fury and heartache sucked back into herself in the blink of an eye, makes Vasco wince. She is going to shatter, pushed to her very brink, and he has no idea if she will ever be the same. “Right,” she says, her voice even and cold, and Vasco flicks the safety of his revolver back into place. He does not lower his arm, forcing it to remain steady. “Of course. Constantin, we must get you to safety. Where are your advisors?”

Kurt turns as she breezes by him, and finds himself face to face with barrel of Vasco’s pistol. 

The Naut relishes the way his skin pales, the way his grey eyes widen and his mouth slackens. He can feel the wrath in his own eyes, knows that his teeth are bared and his chin raised. He sees the realization in the other man’s face when Kurt understands just how _close_ he had come to death. And as far as Vasco is concerned, it is still well within the realm of possibility. 

The sea Captain makes a show of meeting Kurt’s steely eyes as he slowly lowers the gun, tucking it back into its holster on his thigh. Siora straightens beside him, and the guard Captain’s gaze settles on her for only a moment before it is on Vasco again. 

He turns on his heel without a word, and follows De Sardet into the depths of treason.

* * *

They are separated on the Palace steps. 

“I have to find Lady Morange,” De Sardet says, voice cracking, whip-like. Petrus and Aphra had burst from her home at the sound of fighting in the streets. All six of them stand in a ring in the courtyard. “Petrus, Aphra, find your messengers. It is imperative we get the news out at once, if we wish to see the cities still standing by nightfall.”

“Of course, child,” Petrus rumbles, bowing, before he peels away and jogs in the direction of the west gate. A purple haze envelops him as he moves. 

“Aphra, take my knife.” De Sardet pulls a thin blade from her left boot, curved and wicked. “The streets are narrow in places. I don’t want any collateral damage to civilians by a stray shot.” Aphra catches it deftly when De Sardet flips it in her direction, twirling the blade between her dark fingers. Her eyes flash, and she says nothing except a brief nod of thanks before she slinks away to the east. 

“Vasco, you need --”

“No.”

She pins him in place with a sharp stare, but he will not be cowed. Vasco crosses his arms over his chest and jerks his chin up, defiant. If she’s gotten it in her fool skull that he’s about to let Kurt out of his line of sight, she’s about to learn a very thorough lesson, indeed. “This isn’t a discussion.” 

“Agreed. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Someone needs to tell the Admiral to shut down the port, and she’ll need help to do it. The Nauts will listen to you, but none of the rest of us. Otherwise, we run the risk of Torsten escaping.”

It’s an infuriatingly good point, but he’s not ready to concede yet. The fury snaking in his stomach has only grown, morphing into something truly terrifying, and he’d rather die than let her go off with Kurt. “Send a message with Siora.”

“She’s coming with me. We’re going after his lieutenants.” There is something buried in her blue eyes, a dark and solemn promise meant only for him, and he is almost sure he knows what it is. 

It’ll have to be enough. A sharp _crack!_ of gunfire heralds the incoming riots, and they are out of time. Always, always, _always_ running out of time.

“Fine. Try not to die, will you?”

“As my Captain wishes.” There is no humor in her voice, no merriment in the warped smile that curls across her lips. He hates to see it. 

There is so much he wants to say, so many things he wants her to know before they go their separate ways, but the raucous crowd is suddenly spilling through the northern entrance of d’Orsay Square. It is impossible to tell who is on whose side; nearly all the warriors are sporting the same colors, and more than several go down without lifting their weapons against their brothers, refusing to strike against those they called friend. 

So, instead, he catches her hand. She looks at him only briefly, eyes steeled with resolve, before she is gone. Siora squeezes his shoulder as she passes, and he knows he can trust her. 

It doesn’t take him long to reach the Port Quarter; most of the fighting is centered around the tavern and barracks, and what skirmishes spill into the Silver and Copper districts are easy to avoid by climbing up the scaffolding still piled up around the unfinished city. He doesn’t wish to take any chances of shooting the wrong person.

Admiral Cabral is already in fine form by the time he reaches the docks. “Vasco!” she barks at him when he comes jogging up. “We’re shutting this place down. No one goes in or out. What’s happening?”

“A coup,” he snaps, antsy. Cabral takes it in stride. “The Coin Guard have revolted. Their targets are the governors.” He looks over his shoulder at the sound of a fantastic crash; it sounds like the merchant stalls are being raided. “Commander Torsten arranged it all.”

“Shit,” she spits. “Torsten. He always was a snake.”

“I cannot imagine,” Vasco drawls. “The Legate and her team are hunting the lieutenants. They’ll know where he is. In the meantime, we need to set up a blockade. All entrances --”

“Already done. We need help rounding up the sailors and locking down the ships.”

“Just point me in the right direction.”

The sun is setting by the time they have managed to corral all the Nauts onto their assigned ships. Several small scuffles had broken out amongst the ranks, and suspected sympathizers were being held for questioning later. Vasco is strolling along the pier in front of his own ship, same as all the other Captains, checking and re-checking her knots and roll call, when there is a sudden cry from above him on the gangway.

“ _Captain_!”

A shocking pain suddenly rips through his left shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet, burning and _awful_ , but before he can even react he hears several shots fire from the deck of his ship. There is a splash behind him as his assassin falls into the water, and Vasco gasps in agonized shock as he presses a hand to the wound. His fingers come away bloody, and when he looks down, he can see a hole in his coat. 

_Well_ , he thinks, _At least it went all the way through._

The knowledge doesn’t make it hurt any less. He’s been shot before, and likely not for the last time, but there is very little he likes less. Vasco groans, vision blurring, and drops to a knee. The agony in his shoulder is all-consuming, and it is almost too difficult for him to think. He needs… he needs bandaging. And a stiff drink. 

“Flavia!” He bellows, and he hears her rapid steps scampering toward him, off the deck from above. “A medic!” 

“Yes, Captain!” Vasco sinks to both his knees on the pier, sitting back on his ankles and lifting his eyes to squint down the Port Quarter toward the middle of the square. It is dusk, and the city went quiet hours ago; he can only assume that the dissenters had been overwhelmed and rounded up. Any other alternative is unthinkable. And yet, no signal had come to lift the lockdown. 

Vasco watches with hazy vision as Flavia sprints back toward him, a medic close at her heels. He grunts his thanks at her and she nods, ashen, before trudging back up onto her assigned post on the ship. His crew is well disciplined, loyal; he can feel each and every one of their stares as they look down at him crouched on the pier. Vasco grits his teeth. 

“Captain,” the healer says with a nod, and Vasco nods. The man helps him shrug out of his bloody leather coat, hissing all the while, and slices through his undershirt. “Any idea who did it?”

“No,” Vasco snaps. “Bastard shot me from behind.”

“Pity. He likely had information.” He draws a white cloth from his bag and douses it with a strong-smelling liquid.

“My crew is open for questioning. They witnessed it. I don’t know who killed him.”

“I shall pass that along.” The man’s eyes are hard and dark as he stares at Vasco sternly. “This will hurt. I have some bourbon if you’d prefer.”

He considers it. He does, and very nearly reaches for the proffered bottle before the sudden, sickening memory of Sylvania’s ghostly pale face and trembling hands flashes behind his eyes. She is going to need him. More than he can fathom, he suspects, and he does not want to go to her half-delirious, smelling of drink and blood. 

So he shakes his head, grits his teeth, and snarls, “Just do it.”

The wound is cleansed, stitched, and bandaged with the kind of efficiency that only comes from a battlefield surgeon. The man hadn’t lied in the slightest; it hurt like hell, and more than once Vasco has to chomp on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood to keep himself from screaming. His pride couldn’t take it, losing his composure in front of his crew. It is almost worse than being shot. 

“There,” the medic says when he is done. The Captain is sweaty and pale, and his shoulder aches like nothing else, but he knows he won’t die. “Good as new. Change your bandages every day for a week and then I’ll take your stitches out.”

Vasco knows for a damn fact he’s going to have Siora do it for him instead, but he nods anyway. “Thanks.”

“Just doing my job, Captain.”

And then, just as Vasco manages to push himself to his feet, a blue flare launches itself into the darkening sky from what he estimates is around d’Orsay Square. In the distance, to the west, he can just make out the answering glow of a red one, only barely visible above the mountains. To the east, green magic streaks into the atmosphere, high above the treeline. 

_All clear._

But he knows his night has only just begun.

* * *

There is blood _everywhere_. Splattered against stone walls, trickling in rivulets between the cobblestones underfoot. He was right; several market stalls have been upended, and their goods scattered in the street. Most of them are smeared with it, too, either from being trampled underfoot or… other things. Vasco cannot tell the difference. 

He makes his way as quickly as he can through the silent city. As far as he can tell, he is the only one moving about in the open throughout the whole town. Not once, on his journey from the Port Quarter to d’Orsay Square, does he come across another living soul. The quiet is nearly oppressive, broken only by the occasional call of an owl as it heralds the evening. There are no people calling to one another, no merchants hawking their wares, no toll of the bell to mark the time. Only him, and the tackiness of drying blood beneath his boots. He tries not to shudder. 

It is nearly black by the time De Sardet’s green door comes into sight, and a breath he didn’t know he had been holding escapes him when he sees the lit lantern hanging from the eaves; she is home. There is no telling where her other friends are. They could be with her, joined in camaraderie around her fireplace as they discuss their next move. They could be scattered about the city, mopping up the stragglers.

They could be dead. 

His gut twists, and Vasco hurries forward. His ruined leather coat is draped over his right arm, the left dangling by his side. He is missing the left sleeve of his shirt, torn away by the medic’s knife with the frayed ends bloody and ragged, crusted streams dried and itchy down his arm, and he wonders if they all fared any better. His shoulder throbs, pulsing and angry, and he wonders if Kurt is there. 

He hopes he is. He hopes he isn’t.

But, when Vasco pushes open the wooden door to De Sardet’s large townhouse, he finds no one in the sitting room. The fire is roaring, and her coat is hung on its peg beside the door. Her pistol lies on the end table beside the couch, and there is a variety of miscellaneous clothing and armor flung all over. Her boots are slumped against the wall by the stairs, one of them on its side and the other upright. Like she had chucked them there. 

Her sabre is in the middle of the floor, halfway out of its scabbard, still attached to the belt. Her hat, with its jaunty white feather, hurled perilously close to the fireplace. And her favorite cape, ocean blue and bearing the oh-so-recognizable Naut Sigil, crumpled two steps from the door. He can see blotches of crimson on the visible edges, and he quickly looks away, throat tightening.

Carefully, Vasco steps out of his own boots. He sets them to the side of the door, and hangs up his own jacket. His belt and sheath go with it, and he slides the tie out of his own blond hair so it hangs loose at his shoulders. And then, so very gingerly, he beings tidying. 

He retrieves her boots from where she had flung them and sets them beside his own. Her pauldrons and bracers he finds under the couch, and his abused body shrieks a loud warning at him when he wriggles his way underneath to retrieve them. He picks up her scabbard and sabre, so much lighter than his own, and hangs it up with her own coat. 

When he walks toward the fireplace for her hat, intending to set it upon the mantle where she can see it later, he finds her curled upon the furs on the floor, staring blankly into the flames. 

For a moment, all he can do is look. She is so _pale._ Her black hair is tangled and limp, matted with dried blood at her temple. There is an ugly bruise there, but no gash; Siora must have healed her. Long fingers clutch at the edges of the blanket she has drawn around her, pulled up to her chin so only her face is exposed to the warmth of the flames. Vasco feels his muscles sag with relief at the sight of her, alive at the very least, but when she barely lifts her eyes to look at him, what little joy there had been vanishes. 

He was right. She is… shattered. There is simply no other word for it. 

Vasco drops her hat back down onto the floor before he steps carefully toward her. She does not flinch away, does not acknowledge him at all, and it frightens him more than he wants to admit. Sylvania De Sardet is a woman of boundless energy and easy smiles, always quick with a dry quip or sarcastic taunt. She does not bend and she does not break, as she heralds the winds and storms themselves. She commands the world around her with ease and guile, so her foes are almost glad to fall before her feet and offer themselves as penance. The woman here, huddled on the floor before the flames of her hearth and shrinking into herself by the minute, is not the Legate of the Congregation. 

She is Sylvania. And that is all. The tempest behind his sails, cast down into silence.

Vasco doesn’t say anything as he moves closer. Slowly, he drops to his hands and knees, gritting his teeth against the sharp protest from his wounded shoulder, and crawls forward until he is behind her, back braced against front of her couch. With a strange sort of caution he has never felt the need for, he reaches forward and tugs at her arm, still hidden beneath the blanket. He cannot move her himself, not with the hole in his flesh and the aches in his muscles.

“Come here.”

It is the only thing he can bring himself to say, and even that feels like too much; he flinches at the sudden breaking of the oppressive quiet, but it has the intended effect. De Sardet turns her head slowly, her blue eyes finally finding his own. They are red and bloodshot, but she does not cry. And with a painful sort of stiffness, she pushes herself up to face him fully. 

Vasco cannot help the hissing intake of breath when he sees her fully exposed. There is a large purple mark on her left cheek, as if someone had slugged her across the face, and her own undershirt is speckled with blood, particularly around the right side of her collar, where her hair is stuck to her skin. She looks absolutely nothing like the woman from this morning, who had greeted him with a kiss that lit him from the inside. 

He pulls her forward. 

De Sardet doesn’t come willingly so much as she is utterly limp, but Vasco chooses not to call attention to it. Instead, he bundles her, blanket and all, against his chest. Her long legs drape across his lap, her feet bare, and he makes sure her head rests against his uninjured shoulder. He places his left hand upon one of her knees, squeezing gently, and then… he waits. 

He does not try to talk to her. He wouldn’t know what to say, anyway, other than to rail at Kurt and his selfishness, to ask whether he was rotting in a gutter or a cell somewhere like he deserves, but he knows she does not want such a harsh reminder. To relive such an awful revelation, that a decades-old friendship is not what she thought it was. On today of all days, no less. 

So, instead, he just sits on the floor and waits. 

It takes a long time for her to relax against him, for her face to nestle against the side of his neck and her breath to fan across his jawline. So long that his back aches and his legs fall asleep. Her forehead presses into the skin by his ear, and he hears her give a long, shuddering sigh. One slim hand comes to curl at the collar of her shirt, and he draws the blanket tighter around her. 

“You’re hurt,” she whispers, and he can’t stop himself from flinching. Her voice is hoarse, a kind of rawness to it he has never heard before. 

He has to swallow before he can reply, tamping down his anger and his grief to something that almost sounds soothing. “As are you.” He draws a thumb across the bruise on her cheek. “Was it…”

“Kurt? No.” She shifts, burrowing further into him. He _needs_ her to keep talking, needs her to get it out before it eats her alive from the inside. “He can still claim that much at least.” Her fingers tug at the ruined edge of his shirt. “What happened?”

“Someone shot me.”

He feels her wince, and he grips her tighter. “Who?”

“I’m not sure. Never saw his face.”

She hums and asks no more questions. He wouldn’t know what to tell her anyway. 

Another several long, silent minutes pass as he listens to her breathe. He is not equipped for this. Likely never will be. He is a sailor, rough and uncouth and quick-tempered. Things as fragile as this, so bruised and tender, are not meant for fumbling hands such as his own. Vasco does not have the slightest clue how to comfort her -- from her family to her cousin’s death sentence to Kurt’s almost-betrayal -- and especially not when each blow had fallen upon her shoulders not even hours after the other. One two three. Stab slice lunge, no time to parry. Three neat little bullet holes, lined perfectly across the bullseye. The only thing he can think to do is keep holding her, let her speak when she is ready. De Sardet, as upright and poised as she is, is a tactile woman. She likes the little feathery touches, holding hands, leaning on his shoulder around a campfire. That romantic bullshit he’d never bothered to consider before. 

He is fairly certain _this_ is not considered romantic. 

When she shifts in his lap again, it is to drape an arm gingerly across his neck, careful of the white bandages on his shoulder. She sighs again, deeper than before, and murmurs, “What do we do now?”

Vasco is many things, a liar being one of them, but he finds he does not have the heart to give her what they both know would be empty platitudes. So, instead, he states simply, “I don’t know.”

“...What if he dies?”

It is his turn to heave a long breath, and he tightens his grip around her, steadfastly ignoring the burning flare in his left arm. “Then… we will deal with it as it comes.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

There are a lot of things he can say to that. He can tell her that he knows she can, that she has to, that if anyone can pull it off, it is her. She is a veritable force of nature, crumpled and broken as she is now in his embrace, but he knows she will pick herself up tomorrow morning, slipping into her mask of Legate for the Merchant Congregation as if she hadn’t had the rug yanked out from under her thrice-fold. She has no choice in the matter, and they both know it. 

In the end, he just wants her to smile. So he says, “Then… we’ll get you a tattoo in the morning. You are Seaborn, after all. We’ll sail away into the sunset and leave this place behind to sort its own mess out.”

It has the intended effect, although not as much as he hoped; she whuffs a short laugh against the skin of his neck. “I don’t know. Those tattoos look like they hurt.”

“Eh, they’re not so bad. You get used to it eventually.”

“I am far too much of a wuss.”

“You must take me for a fool, if you expect me to believe that.” He clutches at her, maybe a bit desperate, but neither of them acknowledge it. _Gods_ , but he loves her so much it aches. “You are the strongest person I know.”

There is a beat of silence. “You help with that, you know.”

“I try.”

“You do.” Finally, she pulls back, looking him full in the face for the first time tonight. She still looks haunted, her sharp features drawn and hollow, but her eyes are no longer red and have stopped staring straight through him. Vasco swallows. “I know you would have killed him for me.”

He cannot stop his jaw from clenching, his hands bunching in the fabric of her clothes as hot, searing _rage_ blows through him with all the force of a firestorm. “That can still be arranged.”

Her mouth twitches, and he wonders if she was about to smile, of all things. He finds he cannot care, not when she has reminded him so thoroughly of the sight of Kurt’s broad shoulders down the length of his barrel. De Sardet is far from stupid. He knows she knows there is no possible way Kurt had not been informed of the Guard’s plan before that afternoon. Not with his advantageous position, not with his hard-earned rank. And he had said nothing.

The bruise on her face suddenly seems so much darker. His shoulder throbs.

“I’ll get it sorted,” she tells him flatly, and he cannot determine if it is supposed to be reassurance or a threat. “He owes me that much.”

“He owes you _everything_.”

De Sardet snorts, an ungraceful sound, and pushes herself up from his lap. His legs tingle unpleasantly as blood suddenly returns to them, and he takes her proffered hand to hobble to his feet. He feels disgusting, and he is sure he looks it, too. “Come,” she says. “We can speak more about it in the morning. And Vasco?”

“Hm.”

“Thank you.” The sudden sensation of her lips on his is gone almost as soon as it appears. He almost chases her, but knows she is far too brittle for such things. “For your honesty. For being here.”

As if he would go anywhere else. As is he wants to _be_ anywhere else. He tells her as much, and this time, her kiss is longer, slower. He lets her lead it, lets her take what she needs, even though it is still brief and chaste. He is… so tired. So he follows her up the stairs of her home, leaving the door unlocked and the lantern lit, with the knowledge that everything has changed.


End file.
